


In the pages that you wrote

by orphan_account



Series: KuroKura AUs [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angel!Kurapika, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blind Kurapika, Dorks in Love, Falling In Love, First Love, Forbidden Love, Idiots in Love, Immortal!Kuroro, Love at First Sight, Love/Hate, M/M, Minor Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight, Multi, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Pining, Priest!Kuroro, Seer Kurapika, Thief Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer, Unrequited Love, demon!kurapika, fairy tale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26458429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Random Selection of fics to read when you have nothing to do.+In the middle of the night [Kurokura]+The ghost of you [KuroKura Soul AU]-Araw-Araw [Killugon fluff]-Ephemeral Transcendence [LeoPika fluff]+Divine [KuroKura Angel AU but not really]-What of History [KuroKura Fairy tale ish AU]+Nth Death [Kurokura Immortal AU]-The moon who dreams of the past [Killugon Fluff?]+One more time [Kurokura Seer AU]If requested, one-shot may be expanded
Relationships: Gon Freecs & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight, Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Kurapika
Series: KuroKura AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980625
Comments: 33
Kudos: 158





	1. What of History

**Author's Note:**

> I am in kurokura brainrot now you shall too—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroro has a favorite fairy tale in an old almost broken book he found as a Child with pages written in an unknown language Kurapika translate it for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is clumsily written dkdj I’m kot exactly proud of it but I wanted to celebrate finally being free from exams. Holy hell I’ve been dead.

If there was one thing he never expected to happen, it would be the fact he and Kurapika Kurta came to an agreement—A functional one at that! There was still tension of course but it was tolerable. Perhaps the few years that had gone by manage to ebb away the rage that settled in his heart. he quite liked having the Kurta as a companion. A lot of things were left unsaid between them but they preferred it that way.

"What’s that?" Kurapika looks expectantly at the book Kuroro gingerly held. "Something of great importance to me." His soft tone struck Kurapika as odd, Kuroro Lucilfer was uncharacteristically soft. Even if the chance was very small, Kurapika asked "Can I see?" He prepared himself for rejection. He didn’t expect for the man to actually hand the book over to him.

There were many fairy tales Kuroro Lucilfer found himself fond of—one of them actually inspired the phantom troupe and that exact one was his most favorite classic.

It wasn’t a well known fairy tale, that much he knows now. As an adult he’s tried to find copies of the tale he’s grown up reading—but there was no copy. It simply didn’t seem to exist anywhere which in Kuroro’s opinion, only increased it’s (sentimental) worth.

This book held a place dear to his heart, so he tries to preserve it’s contents as much as possible, however the book itself was rightfully dilapidated, the neck of the book was only held up with thick knotted string which he himself repairs quite often. The pages were brittle with age and stained with both the smell of coffee—which he has spilt more than once to his dismay—and must which all remind him of home, wherever that is.

It’s contents were what made it interesting, as mentioned before, it contains the fairy tale he cherishes but that was only the middle part of the story, the supposed climax. The first few pages were actually written in an ancient language, some letters were familiar but the rest were undecipherable. He could only wish to unveil it’s meanings; The ancient text was something he’d cross reference to many other olden language but none have given him a clue to it’s origins.

He couldn’t deny the strange oddity, why exactly was a book written in a strange language suddenly written to today’s language? It could have been written recently but the ink used was the same age.

After the ancient text, a few pages would go blank before the first fairy tale, his favorite fairy tale, was foretold.

The story starts off, like this.

There was once a lowly thief who scorned the world for forsaking him. The man had the seed of greed planted in his heart as a young child.

After having nothing growing up, he decided that he will be taking everything. He garnered a small following of 8 that he considered as his close family, he fondly called them his spiders as a reference their number and to their goal, "Everything which has fallen is ours, ensnare those who dare take anything from us."

And so they did, for a long time the man had taken joy in stealing the the things the world had to offer. No matter  
it’s size or it’s weight in gold, he would take it. The thief however found joy in the more beautiful things. He came to collect Jewelry and books, artworks of any kind and more. Still despite all these treasures, he was still not satisfied.

Until one day, the young thief along with his group raided a mansion belonging to an old baron. The old man was rumored to have the most beautiful Gem eyes in existence, ones belonging to an old clan that had been forgotten by history. This however, was a trap. The moment he’d gotten a hold of the Gem eyes, an army of men had already surrounded the vicinity forcing the thieves to scatter and separate. The young thief served himself as a decoy, much to the chagrin of his spiders, so they could escape.

The battle was tiring and seemingly endless, the thief had managed to escape but barely. He escaped to a hidden forest parallel from the mansion before stumbling and loosing his way. The river he had fallen into, washed away the blood that pooled from his wounds; He was at the brink of death.

The thief clutched the treasure in his hands. It was truly beautiful, the eyes were the same color as the sky except it glowed brightly and shined like the diamond rings he stole but better. The eyes are simply the most beautiful pair he knows he will ever get to meet in his life time and he finds no regrets in dying because of it.

However, before he was greeted by death—a young boy had found him first. When the thief had awoken from near death slumber, wounds patched up to a fault, he met his savior. The young boy belonged to an isolated village with the population of one, himself. Nature had run it’s course and over taken the entirety leading the thief to believe that perhaps this boy, was a stowaway or lone survivor.

It was difficult to converse with the boy. Their tongues spoke of different things that none of them seemed to be able to decode, even so they managed to form a good bond as the boy nursed the thief back to health. When the time came when the thief could leave, there was hesitation. His spiders were surely waiting for him and his return, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the boy and he knew he couldn’t just take the boy with him to an unfamiliar world. So in the end, he decided to stay and swallowed his wish on taking the boy away.

The two worked together in the field, coming to understand each other via the tone of their voices. It was easy to discern the emotion in the younger man. He was an open book and the thief found that very charming. They spent every waking hour by each other’s side that the two had grown fond of each other. The boy was beautiful with his golden hair and even more beautiful blue eyes that it rivaled the treasure he had stolen, which lay hidden under the bed.

Everything was going great, The thief had enjoyed the way the young boy would sigh in satisfaction after a long day’s work. Laughed at the way the boy would yelp whenever the thief surprised him with a hug. Smiled at the way the boy seemed to enjoy his presence the same way he did. Before he knew it, the boy became a vital part of his world.

In the middle of the day, the thief received an epiphany as he peered at the Gem eyes he had collected. It was no longer the most beautiful thing he’d ever own or see. The one who deserved that title was the boy who slept slumped over the bed he laid on fretting on his wounds. The same boy who’s cherubic face juxtapose the drool that escaped his lips. The moonlight made him glow with unearthly grace. He looked at the eyes again, and hid them among the trinkets the boy possessed. It was then the thief decided he no longer had the urge to steal, as long as he had the company of the boy. There was no need to claim the boy as his own, his only wish was to see him happy, that was enough.

One day, he promised to himself that when the day comes that the boy would accompany him. He would take him to see the world.

Soon that promise was taken away. The old baron had sent the same army to find him and find him they did. They manage to track down the lost village and in turn, him. They mercilessly beat the thief into submission to return the eyes, and that he had, but even so they continued. Fire, without remorse or even a hint of hesitation they burned down the home he’d come to consider his own in front of him, and they left him there. Surrounded by fire and thick smoke.

To be honest, there was no point in giving back the eyes, because the men never took it with them, instead leaving it by the young thief’s side. This would be his second death but instead of his body half submerged in water, he was slowly inching closer to the flame.

Again looking at the eyes, he found comfort in it. However, he didn’t revel in it’s beauty which he had coveted at first. The eyes served as a reminder of the young boy he’d grown so fond of. Knowing he couldn’t escape death this time, the thief didn’t have regrets to dwell on. He had already did that before. Now he was just happy for the fact the boy had not been present during the attack.

The story would have ended there. It should have ended there, but it didn’t. Kuroro had always found this part of the story a bit muddled. There was a missing page before it immediately cuts to the true end where the thief woke up completely unscathed with the gem eyes, except they were no longer gem eyes just ordinary blue eyes.

Now why exactly did one recap all that? The answer is simple, Kuroro Lucilfer was about to learn the true extent of the story.

"Wait I know this." "What?" Kuroro whipped his head at the words Kurapika had uttered. "You know the story?" He had asked, voice laced with hope. Kurapika sadly shook his head, "I don’t, but I do know the language. This was the original text our ancestors used before they evolved into what they are—were, today. I’m guessing this book was from a sister tribe that had died awhile back."

That had surprised him, who would have thought the book had Kurutan origins? Well it’s the eyes he supposes. "Can you decipher it?" Try as he might but his excitement was slowly leaking to his face. Kurapika threw him an amused glance but nodded, "I can try."

They spend the rest of the day decoding what had been previously a mystery in Kuroro’s eyes. As it turns out, the book itself was a diary at first detailing entries upon entries of routinely works of a young boy who lived alone. This book was the original diary of the boy from the story.

The boy laments on waking up one day alone without memories of his past. How the village he lived in seemed to be without people and the loneliness it brought him. Despite that, the boy couldn’t bring himself to leave. The place was something important to him he could tell.

So to distract himself, he gave himself a routine to follow as weird as it was. Work in the fields all day, attempt to retain the village—which he had failed nature was simply too powerful— and to relax and retrace his steps if he could remember. For some semblance of spontaneity, he sometimes switches this up.

One excerpt, Kuroro noted, struck him. Almost all of the entries were carefully written. Some words they couldn’t translate to a more decisive perspective but this particular one resonated numbly in his heart.

"I can’t remember why I’m here. Loneliness suffocates. Silent sounds (...) reminds me (...) I want to leave but I’m scared."

Things stayed this way until one entry.  
"I met a man today. (...) I thought he was dead. He looked dead. I took him home. Heal with (...) He’s sleeping in my bed.” More entries came about but they looked more like clumsily written summaries of the day. They were no longer as detailed as before.

“He helped me today. (...) to night. It was fun—We found (...) berries in the woods”

“It’s sad. I don’t (...) understand what he is saying, but he feels (...) nice.”

“(...) tried to call my name. It sounds (...). “  
“(...) is hiding something under the bed. I want to know (...) bad.”

“He smiled a lot today. I like his smile (...) should smile more.”

“His wounds are getting better. (...) I think he wants to leave.”

“I don’t want him to leave.”

“He stayed.”

After that last entry however, there were no more cohesive ones. It immediately went to the fairy tale he’s known foe a long time. There was an odd feeling in his chest Kuroro notes. It wasn’t a bad feeling, far from it. There was a sense of awe—after all this time the book he treasured was a book of interconnected stories and Kurapika unlocked that for him.

The kurta looked intrigued, trying to decipher the story more and Kuroro was more than happy to help him. After the fairy tale, the middle part of the book, the next pages needed no help in deciphering. Clearly the author had changed and there was no doubt in their minds that this was the thief. The thief wrote in stories, some normal and some not so much. The thief had reunited with his crew and continued his adventure like nothing happened. Almost like this event was merely another insignificant trifles he’s dealt with, However that clearly wasn’t the case.

If the thief hadn’t cared, why did he continue to write in the diary of the boy? He could have gotten himself a better book after all the thief reveled in riches, why did he choose to leave his mark on a home made book? Why did he keep it?

And re-reading through all the stories he’s written, you could see the mention of eyes. A pair of eyes he claim was his good luck charm—ones that he never allowed his crew to handle.

“I’ll show you all the places I couldn’t”

Was said in one paragraph near the ending of one of his many stories. There was no clear context to connect that sentence to the rest of the story after all the story was about the thief finding something of worth behind a waterfall, it was just written there without clear reason.

Kurapika and Kuroro looked each other in the eye in contemplation. If that was the chase, then could the eyes be—

But no, they shook their head, that would be jumping to conclusions. Perhaps it was the gem eyes that lost it’s luster—but then why would he keep something that lost the detail he admired so greatly?

The thief—made no sense.

As they were finishing up the book. They finally stumble upon it’s last pages. It wasn’t written as a story, nor as an entry—but a letter addressed to someone.

“It’s finally coming to an end. I think, death will finally have it’s way with me this time. I have cheated death more than enough and you have traded him something for mind once as well. I think it’s time. There isn’t a day where I don’t miss you as brief as it was.—“

Then the text returned to the Kurutan script, Kurapika translated for them.

“—Look! I tried learning your (...) I am not great (...) but I wanted to (...) and keep your memory. If you were here (...) maybe we could have talked more. We could (...) understand each other. I am (...) you would like that. I miss hearing you (...) my name. So I call yours instead—“

“Curapikt.” Kuroro eyed Kurapika who had a lost expression on his face. “The boy’s name was Curapikt.” His expression was calm but his voice wasn’t steady, despite this Kuroro only nodded. “I see.” Perhaps the thing that set Kurapika off was the fact Curapikt had a similar way to him, but with a different lilt. “Curapikt.” He said, tasting the name on his mouth, he liked the way it flowed.

Kurapika looked at him stunned before coughing. Tapping against the book he continued.

“—Curapikt. I remember (...) it sounded silly then. You laughed a lot when I say (...). I hope with how many times I (...) it sounds natural. You know, I’ve tried to (...) my friends, but they don’t believe you (...). I would not blame them. Instead they believe (...) that ‘Curapikt’ is a (...) mantra I picked up. I say it before we (...) “

The text alternated yet again to say

“ I don’t know what happened that day not how you did what you did. I think I finally understand why you were here. As much as I wish you hadn’t rescued me, you did, and I’m thankful. No one may remember you, but I hope I can keep you in my memory until I go. I hope you are the last thing I see as you always have.”

“See you soon, Qwurof” Uttering the name left a feeling of finality in him. This name, which he has never known until now, left him feeling nostalgic. There was another line at the bottom, written again in the Kurutan script, but before he could ask what they were he found himself in a predicament.

Kurapika had fallen asleep slumped over the bookcase. He fondly scoffed over the sight, looking out, he could see the night sky with it’s glittering stars. They had been there for the entirety of the day. He knows he should wake up the kurta, no doubt he’d have his head if he left him there, but he looked peaceful when he wasn’t planning on murdering him.

So instead, he removed his own coat and draped it in on the kurta. Satisfied when he had curled up even more to it. Kuroro Lucilfer sighed and slid down beside him. The lifelong mystery he thought he’d never unveiled was done in a single day. He felt the weight of the book in his hand. This book was a testament to the experience of two people who could not understand each other but didn’t allow that to deter them. He contemplated on these things.

There were still aspects that were left a mystery. What happened to the boy? What did Qwurof see that day? For some reason, he felt content on keeping those a mystery. Only Qwurof should know what happened that day, if he wanted people to know he would have wrote it, but he hadn’t instead he vaguely hinted it. Whatever happened might have been personal.

He has always related himself to Qwurof, modeling himself after him to a degree, but now that almost all the pieces were in place. He couldn’t help but see the haunting coincidence. There was no clear description of Qwurof but there was definitely one of Curapikt. Golden hair, Cherubic face with Blue eyes, an almost accurate description of the boy that slept soundly beside him. The only difference was the fact Kurapika had silver grey eyes, and that wasn’t all, the fact that Curapikt seemed to be of Kurutan decent was a damning fact. A sister tribe that died down, Kurapika mentioned, and a similar genetic mutations Involving eyes.

History seemed to be repeating themselves in it’s own way. He and Kurapika didn’t understand each other but grew to understand somewhat, just like how Qwurof and Curapikt did but in their own way. Kuroro hopes that it’ll only be until that coincidences go up to that point. He can’t say he’d be happy to see Kurapika disappear any time soon, he enjoys the kurta’s company even though that sometimes included heated debates, seething banters and casually throwing punches.

He hadn’t noticed it then, but Kuroro Lucilfer had drifted off to sleep. If his troupe members found him still asleep in the morning with Kurapika, still covered in his coat, leaning on his shoulder—then they said nothing.

Like how they said nothing when they noticed the boss had already been awake for some time an hour later, waiting for his companion to wake, who like him, did the same.

“I promised to show you the world, and so I will. I will take you everywhere because I (...) you so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this story Was written as the fairy tale kuroro is reading. Like we realy get to see the perspective of Qwurof and Curapikt and not the future ver but I’m not satisfied with how I wrote it too. If I expand it, I’ll post in a separate book, this is suppose to be a one shot.
> 
> Also DIVINE is gonna be posted in a separate place djdjd because it’s too 👀👀 it’s embarrassing me but I’m writing it sisj
> 
> Also like 👉👈 I would like to find some hxh friends who likes the ships I’ve written 👉👈 or open to any ships for the matter skbdjd 
> 
> you can find me on IG as rainedropii


	2. Nth Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qwurof to Quoll to Kuroro—immortality is a curse and humanity is something he'll never understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kinda lost steam after awhile while writing this because I’m writing a 6.5k fic at the same time djjd and the fact I don’t like that one left me in tatters. So, this prolly won’t be good. I can't write angst?  
> I hope it's good but honestly, I'm not sure.

Human life is finite and of no importance to Qwurof Wrlccywrlir, he who walked on the path of unending. He bore no memory of his conception, nor of his reason for living. He simply existed, and never died.

Qwurof Wrlccywrlir never understood Humans and their seemingly innate wish to leave a mark on their ‘history’. Waging wars, unnecessary strife just to get a mention out of a written text of faulty achievements. Even their system of good and bad is broken. The inherently ‘good’ ones are pushed back while the vile get the public eye. It amuses him greatly—the amount of bullshit drama humans generate per decade in each century.

Seriously, why do all these things when in the end, they would end up being born again? There was no need to be remembered, Souls are always put into the never-ending washing machine of the universe—recycled and uncycled out of their sins and born again into another body. Some looking the same, a tad different—or an outright caricature. Are you getting the point now?

Oddly enough, despite the changing tides and ever-evolving society of humanity—those things will always remain constant, as constant as it can be to someone like him anyway.

If he were to be honest, he was frustrated with the universe. He found no joy in listlessly walking through the terrain of the earth—there was no thrill. Even as he gathers all the information the world of humanity had to offer him—nothing could fill the gaping hole in his chest that beat without purpose. So, one day, in a random era of in history, he decided to actually see humanity for himself. He chose a community far from the main cities, where greed proliferated like a plague, and observed. It was a sanctuary, completely hidden from the evolved city with their own culture, although if he managed to find it, someone else will find it too someday. Simplicity was in their name; this must be what society would label as good—pure. The people found joy in the littlest of things, such as seeing their crops grow, the sight of rain falling, children laughing and many other things. Even so, that did not help much in the understanding of Humanity. Instead—he critiqued their biggest flaw, their naivete. No doubt, the community would be raided by outsiders in less than 2 or so decades.

* * *

One day, as he watched aimlessly at the wandering community, he felt a hand grab at his coat. Stunned, he looked back to be greeted by a blonde child, who looked no older than 11 or so. "What are you doing mister? You’ve been here for a while." Curious blue eyes who sparkled with the same naivete its kind held. He smiled, lowering to the child’s height, "Watching, don’t you think it’s fascinating?" It was a rhetoric question, one without a needed answer, and yet "Don’t you think it’ll be better to actually speak to them? Come I’ll introduce you!" Without further delay, a tiny hand pressed against his cold palm. The warmth was polarizing—unfamiliar, but pleasant. "Wait!" For many times, he tried to call out and yank his hand out of the boy’s grip, but he couldn’t find himself doing it.

It would be both his greatest and worst mistake. The catalyst of it all.

The boy had called on their clan elder, whom should have turned him away—a stranger who by far has done nothing but stalk them, who greeted him with a welcoming smile—as did the entire village. They invited him to a lot of things, to do a lot of things. Their extensive crafting skills with the materials they have, never has he seen a beautifully handcrafted garment made so efficiently with the flora. The farming work which included sing and song, it was a cacophony honestly with each person carrying their own tune, he could not help but enjoy and join in though. The anecdotes whose story included each member of the community fascinated them. Their connection to each other was simply interwoven to the point of no distinction.

He has never experienced this before, that much the clan could see from the look on his face—awkward and almost shy, but he can’t help but be thankful for it. There were no words to explain what he felt, but this was the closes he's ever gotten to understand the feeling of belonging—and it was wonderful. "So, did you enjoy your day mister?" The sun was setting over the horizon, painting the sky in stunningly warm colors. The boy's bright smile was infectious and heart-warming. "I did, thank you." The words he said did not feel enough but —"I'm glad—Ah, I never told you my name huh." Sheepishly the boy rubbed the back of his name before straightening up, holding out his hand.

"I’m Curapikt, what about you mister?"

Curapikt would be the only name he would remember for a long time.

"Qwurof, It’s nice meeting you Curapikt."

Qwurof never understood the importance of having a home, a place to return to. He has always been accustomed to moving away, it would be odd to see a man who hasn’t aged a single bit after 10 going to 40 years now isn’t it? The Nomadic lifestyle suited him, drifting to places with rich history—learning all its centricities. It’s the first time he’s been a part of something he thinks. A few years have passed since the day he first met Curapikt—A few years since he has met the people of the village. He has a home near there, a small hut helped built by him and some clansmen. It is far away enough for him to find comfort in his space but close enough that he can immediately go check if anything were to go awry. He’s had a few visitors, the kind lady who always gave him fruits, the elder clansmen who liked to engage him in conversation—though most of them were of the man gushing about the young ones being so athletic whilst he had back pain. The homemade fruit jams he got from one of the grannies he found particularly delicious, "you remind me of my grandson." There were many times when he almost slipped to tell her he was most likely a lot lot older than she is. The grandma liked to tell him of her kin that had ventured out to be a worker to provide from the outside. A part of Qwurof wished her grandson managed to stay pure to their traditions for her sake.

Lastly, his most frequent visitor, Curapikt whom never fails to make an appearance. The boy was 15 years old by now, and Kuroro is proud to say he grew up splendidly. He is sure that there are millions for the billions of humans for every person like Kurapika—each human is unique but surely there are other people like him. Although, he knows he will never be as happy to spend with another person but him. The boy was simply a joy to be with, his boundless curiosity was certainly something to feed into "What’s the city like?" Wide-eyed and innocent—naive but it is not unbecoming of him. Qwurof hesitates to answer, as if wanting to preserve whatever happy go-lucky version he knew of the world, so he answers carefully. "The city is…different." Eyes flickering to monitor the emotion he displayed. "It’s a beautiful place with many delicacies I’m sure you’ll want to try." The pout from the teasing edge his ruffling of hair "—and all of the books you’ll ever want to read." Oho, Curapikt visibly perked at that. Curapikt’s love for books grew evident over time and he was more than happy to provide him with some of the books he procures in his travels.

"What about the people?" Oh, how he dreaded this question. "It’s people are..." a nervous coil wrapped in the bottom of his stomach. "Kind. Generous and—" "You don’t need to lie Qwurof." Curapikt folded over himself in deep thought "I know not everyone will be like you." Well, he did have a point, no one will ever be like him—cursed to walk the earth for all eternity, but he is not a saint either. "People are selfish by nature." He murmured to himself, saying the practiced mantra he told himself since the beginning of time. "No matter what circumstance a person falls in, there will always be something at fault with them. The people in the city thrive with greed."

Curapikt looked at him understandingly, disappointed at the truth but he gets it. He sighs and asks another, "Do you think Pyro and I will survive out there?" There was no doubt in Qwurof’s mind that he would—he and his friend would—but the inkling thought that, that part of the world tainting Curapikt left a bad taste in his mouth. "You would." He answered, "I’d guide you if you wish." He would rather he be the one to lead him to the world than the world swallowing him whole. The boy smiled brighter, a familiar tint of red rising to his cheeks, "One day then."

Curapikt's admiration was not blind to him. The sneaking glances or the tittering smile that broke through each time he got caught. The apple blossoms that decorated him chubby cheeks. Childish crushes, he would grow out of it overtime—but still, he could not his fondness for the boy. For the one who opened the gate for many possibilities.

At some point in time, he came to the realization where his home lay.

Three years passed, and a few things change, Curapikt was now a blooming young man. No longer did he have the baby fat that decorate his adorable cheeks, Or the lanky awkward form. Now it was a lean figure with an effeminate edge with a face that was adorably ethereal. One of the things Qwurof found himself liking was the moments where he braided Curapikt’s hair. He had grown it out to his mid back, he fondly remembers the boy complaining how much of a hassle it was—and him confessing how much he liked it his hair. What can he say? He looked beautiful with it—now here he was with extra hassle, but he has told Qwurof that he finds braiding it to be very helpful in reducing said hassle, and who was he to stop doing something he’s come to enjoy? Over time, the childish crush had faded—or perhaps the boy- er teen had grown to hiding it—but he finds himself at a crossroads. Pyro, Curapikt’s best friend, seemed to be having a little crush himself. Having made that known when he has offered the teen flowers more than one occasion, but from his observations Curapikt seems to be unaware of his advances. As much as he appreciates Pyro being there for Curapikt, Qwurof feels extremely teemed with agitation of the thought of them ending together.

Still, Curapikt might not have noticed it, but just by existing, he is able to bring light into Qwurof’s Black and White view on life. Giving him a purpose, a need to know and understand what it means to be human.

However, the universe never fails to remind him of the flaw of humanity. Qwurof Wrlccywrlir has little no to regrets, for time washes away its effects. However, this one will never fade from his mind. He had left that day, travelling for a little while—buying gifts to give back to the villagers. He had bought Curapikt a book then, even thought of buying Pyro new shoes—for he could definitely run—but when he came back a terrifying scene greeted him.

Invaders, poachers, thieves—the rats of society soon came crashing into the peaceful village. Everything went to shit. They scavenged the resource, they stole men, women and even children from their homes and burned it all down. He could not remember what exactly happened in that moment. He knew he dropped the things he had—knew he ran all over the village. He knew he entered all of the burning houses—knew all of the people dead, all of the people stolen, all of the people missing. What he had not known was the tears the readily screamed from his face. Curapikt was missing.

He knew then he should be helping the village recover and heal whom ever needed his immediate assistance—but his sense of logic and reasoning were absent. Curapikt was missing. Pyro was also missing. The prickling feeling of cold dread washed over him—did they escape? Were they stolen? Were they still in the burning houses?

Were they dead?

Qwurof Wrlccywrlir swallowed the thought he had thought all hope was lost, until he remembered the one last place he had not yet checked, his house. He ran—ran without delay and without thought to the place where he dwelled, to the place he and Curapikt shared many memories. Only to find that it too was not left unscathed. The house that was built with helping hands burned steadily, in his eyes reflected its distraction—but the one that truly broke him apart was the two bodies that lay only a few feet away. Pyro, the boy who ran as far as the wind could take him was heavily burned, his shoulders, arms and legs damaged beyond repair. The decaying and flaying of skin were present in his form. He was dead, no pulse resounded in his vessel. Curapikt was in no better state, half his face smelt of still burning flesh. The ash marred the color of his vibrant hair, his hands where bleeding profusely, but unlike Pyro—Qwurof could sense a small heartbeat, a pulse, within him. No doubt Pyro had been the one to save him, the one to carry him away—his legs running as fast as it could to save his friend, and not himself.

Qwurof mourned for him, but at that moment there was nothing else in his mind except to preserve and prolong that faint beating of life that persisted. He could only hope that there was still time.

The village that once proudly housed a community of 384 people was now reduced to a measly 94 with some not even sure if they would wake again. They salvaged what they could have and buried the dead with the reverence they deserved. The sight of mass graves of once familiar people brought heavy weight on his heart. He had known these people, not all closely, but knew them enough that his heart flickered in pain. He could only hope that Curapikt would not be joining them any time soon.

Daily he would replace the bandages that covered the teen, and every day he would only grow weaker. The sickly pale color of his skin paired with the stark redness of his burns, the blackened marks with splotches of white terrified him. Curapikt could barely drink water anymore, could barely sleep or open his eyes. Moving any part of his face brought immense searing pain. He remembered it then, in the middle of the night as he tirelessly watched over him. Curapikt had been temporarily lucid, whispering words so softly he barely heard it. “I’m sorry Qwurof...” he had said with unmoving lips.

He remembered placating the boy, assuring him of his survival—anything, anything at all to comfort him, but the words he had spoken sounded as though they were for himself. Curapikt attempted to smile, but he only grimaced in pain “I’m glad you weren’t there...” each tear that dripped down the teen’s face added to his pain. The despair was suffocatingly thick. He should have been there—he should have been there to save them, and yet he was not.

In the end, all his efforts were in vain. Qwurof Wrlccywrlir is once again reminded of Human mortality when Curapikt died quietly on a summer’s day, sleeping peacefully for the first time. He held him in his ears, feeling the last moments wherein his heart grew fainter and fainter until it ceased completely. No tears were shed on that moment, nor were there anything to be said. He was unfeeling, perhaps this is what death feels like. A part of him had died with Curapikt—and what made it worst was the late realization of what he was looking for.

Home, home was a place to return to whenever one is tired. Where was he to return to when his home was dead in his arms? Curapikt was the only person to ever show him the small part of humanity that was deserving. Curapikt was the only person who made him stay. He had only started learning what it was like to live, Now where was he to go now that he too was dead?

For 10 days straight, he built the boy a Mausoleum worthy of him. He knew that the boy would rather be buried with his clansmen, with his family, but the selfish part of him wished that he may be preserved in a place he is carefully assembled himself. The mausoleum was built of stones and he made sure to intertwine it deeply with wood. He laid the body inside the tomb wrapped in cloth. Overall, the mausoleum was still of nature, he only wished that if he were to decay, then may he decay with the flora with the eyes of the towering wood.

When he finally sealed the tomb, that looked more like an altar than a mausoleum, it was already night. The moon hung high over him and watched as he wept. An unfamiliar throaty scream erupted from himself—it echoed throughout the forest, broadcasting his pain to whom may hear it. He pulled and picked apart out the grass—pulling out its roots. Punching, screaming, crying—he did whatever he could to reduce the pain and yet it lingered. He wanted to be angry, to blame someone for taking all the things he’s come to cherished. If he knew the day he left would have been the last time, then he wished he stayed and died burning alive if he could with them. Experiencing the pain alongside them was more favorable than dealing with the aftermath alone. When the sun had already risen, he still wept. Voice exhausted beyond belief from calling out a soul he could not call back.

That day, he solemnly left the village. Leaving behind him that understood what it was like to belong to someone. What it was like to be something for someone.

* * *

Years and decades, centuries pass and with time his name is lost. He kills the identity of Qwurof Wrlccywrlir the un-aging immortal for Quoll Lucifer, a faceless thief. He laughs with a sardonic smile at the fact he became the very thing that lead to villages’ destruction. Even though he only stole what was needed, his necessities, A part of him is disgusted with himself. Curapikt wouldn’t approve of this, but if there was one thing he’s come to realize with time—it is the fact that although he says Humanity is a creature of fault, but he is the biggest example of them all.

As the world continues, those dead will be born again with new forms. He has seen the familiar faces of the village people he had known long before. The old granny who gave him fruit jams had been reborn as a successful baker—he left a hefty tip when he had bought (with his own money) the fruit jammed bread she sold. It tasted almost exactly as he remembered it. The particularly gossipy elder clansmen became a news reporter with a weird haircut, he finds himself watching his broadcasts often.

He even saw Pyro once, years—years before named Apoy who had a family of his own. It was strange seeing their reincarnates like this. Familiar faces, different names, different stories. The change was disconcerting, but he should be used to it. He has always known Humanity would always cycle back to be born—but if that were the case, then how come he has not come across Curapikt’s?

The universe must truly hate him if they plan on keeping Curapikt from reincarnating to toy with him.

After a long long—long time. Quoll visits Curapikt's Mausoleum. Time feels as though it has both stalled and sped up during the years. He remembers it as vividly as though it happened yesterday, yet it also feels like ancient history. He feels nothing with the realization that the village has officially died down—all the old houses, whom he can still name who belonged to who, were overrun with the familiar spiral flora. Each step he took was mind numbingly hollowing. The mass graves were now home for animals after having grown tall trees from their place. Curapikt on the other hand...

The outside of the mausoleum was overgrown with trees. It was somewhat hard to differentiate what he had purposely built years ago from what nature continued. The wood bark covered the outside like a gate, but he still entered with no problem. When he unearthed the seal, one he had put himself all those years ago, it did not surprise him to see the broken pieces of bones that were hidden beneath—flowers. Marigolds, the herb of the sun, fitting for someone who rivaled it in its shine. Even in death beauty becomes him. A lump forms in his throat as his eyes start to have that familiar sting, even with time as a factor. The grief that bloomed in his heart never faded; the pain was still present.

"Hello, Curapikt."

He had no one to hear him but the nature that at surrounded him—still he pretended. Quoll told of the journeys he has went through, the stories of the reincarnates, and...

"I've missed you; Life isn't the same." (without you) It truly was, time moved while he stayed, time took him away far too quick. He may not be there right then, but he still had difficulty to say what he wished to confess. Time passed and again, he cared not about the time he wasted—it mattered not. He hated it; how can one human life be able to unravel him so much? To the point he cursed the land for stealing what he wished was his and his alone, why must someone like Curapikt deserves more than the world could offer, be buried with none but him to remember him by. The thought that one day he too shall forget him makes him feel distressed. The universe knew of the nights where he tried to trace his face unto pages with charcoal and inks, but he could never capture the details of his face. It scared him, was he slowly forgetting what he looked like? How brightly did his hair shine under the sun? What kind of blue shaded his eyes? What was the warm color that made his skin? How tall, how small, what kind? Only lonely nights would remember his madness for letting time fade away the features he treasured so affectionately. The hands of the clock held hands with humanity but not with him, and how he wished it did. Time truly is a fickle in choosing which to start and which to stop, which to retain and which to fade. Before he left, he told the wind a message—one that would never be heard again. An apology from his weary heart.

"I'm sorry, but I’m glad you won’t be here to see this.”

Again he dies one more time.

* * *

Kuroro Lucilfer is the proud Leader of the phantom troupe. A group that originated in Meteor city, the birthplace of those who belong to nothing—but oddly enough it was there where their worth shined.

As Kuroro Lucilfer, he has disregarded all that he has known and come to understand. There was no benefit to being compassionate. There was no need to be human as he is now. His pride was his newfound family, his spiders. Being a thief made him realize the antithesis of humanities bad and good side, and honestly? He prefers the worse side. The universe has stolen so much from him, be it the ability to be human, death, or the people he has come to care about—would you blame him for wanting to do the same? The fact that his nen ability was one that stole other nen abilities made him snicker. Nen, the innate ability you are born with that is intimately tied with your identity—how fitting of him to steal another’s identity for having no discernible one himself.

The one he has is but a mask, but then again everyone is well versed in that—it just happens to be that he’s extremely efficient in being someone and no one.

He has killed knowing that there is no point. The universe has taught him to be merciless in his ways as it was for him. Why should he be kind? Death was only another process of life and he only adjusted its arrival. In a way, this was how he spited the universe, as selfish as it was to take everything from people who had nothing with his vendetta with the universe and it’s co-conspirator, Time. Death could not hold him but he held death in his hands and walked with him, force feeding it to those he found unneeded, Either they are reborn or they are not—that’s the problem for the universe to deal with, it has nothing on him, but if they dare take one of his own—he’ll take a hundred more. So, the day when the news regarding Uvo finally came in a form of a fortune written in a measly page from an obscure notebook, he weeps. Another part of him dies yet again.

The requiem he prepares does not seem enough. It is never enough.

The universe really likes toying with him.

Under the cover of the dark he is suddenly tugged into a Nen binding chain, robbing him of his nen. Still this brought no alarm to him, his odd vitality to survive situations regardless if he wishes to or not often gets him out of these situations. The car ride was a new experience, not riding it itself, but riding it as a hostage. The person beside him, the beholder of the chains, was a petite woman with silver hair. She was the posed as the ‘secretary’ , she’s good at it he’ll give her that. Pretty too, definitely easy on the eyes, but Kuroro knows she’ll never compare to the distant memory hidden in the corner of his mind. Of the boy in Marigold. “What are you looking at?” her voice seethed with a familiar lilt, but it also sounded like a mere copy. The structure of her face was reminiscent of his. Perhaps time has drove him mad with longing that he tries to connect anything to him, even though he is sullying his memory just by being one of the very same people that took him away, hypocritical he is and he knows it well. “Nothing.” Kuroro response.

“I didn’t know the chain user was a woman.”

A scowled crossed the woman’s face as she pulls away the disguise that had taken her this far. Kuroro’s eye widened in a millisecond as time seemed to skid to a stop.

"Who said I was?"

Blonde hair, same face but with different eyes—silvery grey eyes—one akin to his own.

Even as he responded calmly and unfeeling, befitting of a leader of his caliber, inside he felt nothing but despair. Why? Just why? Why now? Of all times? Why did you have to come now Curapikt? This burdensome feeling only drowned him like thick waves of distorted honey. Curapikt—No, Kurapika has scarlet eyes, The only eyes in the world that shown different colors upon intense emotion. The dissonance he feels upon seeing both the Curapikt he remembered, with eyes bluer than the sky that reflected pure happiness compared to the Kurapika, who had silvery grey eyes that bled into scarlet as intense as the rage in his heart. He remembers those eyes. He had reaped them away all those years ago, it felt like only a year has passed since then it was fresh in his memory.

He remembers taking away their lives, uncaring of the fact it was similar, too similar, to the village he once resided in back in time. He didn’t let it bother him the fact that as he shattered bones and snuffed away lives how some of those he had killed looked eerily alike to the people he had known. Hell, one of them looked like Pyro. The fact that Curapikt was here before him, bearing the same eyes that garnered his attention make his heart stutter.

In the first life, he had not been there as thieves murdered and stole off lives that held meaning to Curapikt and him. Now, in the second, He was the villain that exterminated Curapikt’s entire family with his own. Almost killing the very person, he wished he had loved more, and for what? Greed? Did he really become the very thing he was once repulsed by? Why Is he only realizing this now?

In the end, he was a human, flawed in every single way shape or form. He had already been blaming the universe and Time since the start, unaware that he had freedom to choose. Instead he believed that The universe fashioned him to become this way. He believed in no God, but at that moment, he fervently wished he could reverse time and start all over again before everything went to shit. If he could remove all the pain and the anger that he himself put into his heart. He had been waiting all this time to see him again and yet he has already broken him.

Qwurof Wrlccywrlir the unaging immortal, Quoll Lucifer the faceless thief and Kuroro Lucilfer the leader of the phantom did not understand Humanity. He did not understand himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seee? It ain’t that good kdjdj, I’ll be vibing with kurokura AUs in twt for awhile. It's pretty much all I do. I'll try to better my writing.
> 
> might be expanded if good enough but only small anecdote style


	3. In the middle of the night I

There are things in the world that just feel right even when it shouldn’t. It was as if it all came into place just for that moment to happen, and yet it doesn’t make sense either.

What they had could only be described as a strange form of love, if it could even be called that.

Kurapika, the sole survivor of the kurtan massacre and the last bearer of the scarlet eyes, had a simple wish. An understandable wish for someone like him who had to go through hell and back to achieve it. Which was to get retribution for his clan’s eyes and deliver the fitting death sentence to one Chrollo Lucilfer, the murderer of his people.

So how is that very same man was holding him so tenderly? His hands sitting rather comfortably in his waist as the lay in bed, whisking away the moment into their memories.

Like a thief in the night he’d come and go as he pleases—but he’d grown used to his presence that he could most likely predict when he’s visit.

It felt so wrong, and yet so right. There was a war in his mind over whatever they had. How is it that his anger seem to quell when the man holds him to his chest like a precious lamb? How is it that his mind turns blank at the kisses he presses down his nape? More so when he targets his neck and lips? How in the world does it feel so right to be with him in these moments that the feelings of anger and disgust he feels remain nonexistent as long as he’s there with him.

When the dawn breaks and the thief finally leaves does all rationale come running back to him. His conflicting feelings would bite at him relentlessly over this fact. He’d come to ponder when exactly did this whole back and forth came to be. 

To be completely honest, he has no clue when exactly the change occured. The moment when their dynamic had completely shifted.

All he knew is that at night, Chrollo would always be near his side. The first time Kurapika saw him, the man had appeared when someone was trailing after him, effectively saving him as he was once irritatingly admitted.

Then later on the man visibly watched over him to ‘protect’ him. "You have something I want." He once said, but left it at that. What else could the man have wanted when he already took everything away from him is any one’s guess. At first he’d attempted to attack Chrollo when he wasn’t looking, but the man would only dodge and return to his post. It was almost comical how those exchanges went, it would be more fitting to call them playful banter than the payback Kurapika was thinking.

As one might have guessed at some point, even those attacks stopped. To the point, Kurapika accepted Chrollo’s overbearing presence in his life by deciding to ignore him instead. Of course that too changed.

One day they just started to openly converse. Friendly conversation over books and any topics they could. Their intellect was boundless and ever present. Sometimes, He’d greet the man a good night before he fell asleep. On days which he had no work, the two would read together in silence throughout the night. It was moments like those when he’d come to appreciate his presence a bit more. He was more tolerable, he used to reason to himself.

Then suddenly, Chrollo would card his fingers through his hair to lull him to sleep. Before, the mere thought of his touch would send him recoiling to the moon, but now he’d lean unto the warmth of his palm despite the coldness of the tips of his fingers. That later evolved to Chrollo absentmindedly humming as he did so. Kurapika quite liked the sound of his baritone voice. The low timbered purr sent warm ripples in the center of his chest, he found himself at a loss for the fact he wasn’t repulsed by it.

Later own it developed to Chrollo holding him in his chest wordlessly. He could no longer remember the first time it happened—they never spoke of it again nor all about the other things they’ve managed to breach—but it did. He would slip into his bed and hold him how a Lover would to his dearly beloved. Without a thought, he’d leave a fleeting, barely there, kiss at the juncture of his shoulder.

He remembers it well. Sleep had nearly taken him then when that single touch managed to wipe away the sleep in his eyes. It was so light, that he could’ve missed it, but he didn’t. For some odd reason he couldn’t place, he liked it. He liked the feeling, but he’d be caught dead before he’d admit it to anyone.

Soon after that, Chrollo got the hint and continued his advances until they found out that they mold together quite nicely. What they had was as fleeting as the kisses he’d left upon his temple or the soothing touches he’d make to his arms. What they had was an ephemeral moment that could only happen at night. When the moment comes, the moment in which they’d talk about what they had, Kurapika knew they’d fall apart.

Call him selfish as he blatantly disregards the vengeance his clan deserves for those moments, but he can’t help but seek him out. Chrollo Lucilfer had effectively carved himself into Kurapika’s life that the time when he disappeared from their usual routine, he couldn’t but feel almost broken. His mind like a wasteland whose only noise was the wind the blew out of his home.

Knowing all this he knows what he feels is no longer simply hate. As much as he hated the man, perhaps he’d grown to be fond of him. Dare he say, grew to love him, but He wouldn’t exactly call what they have love—the word didn’t sit well with him neither did obsession.

It just felt right.

For now, even though the whole existence of what they had was wrong, Kurapika would continue to invite Chrollo in his life. Even if he didn’t, he knows the man would break in either way. He would be his, in a twisted way of sorts, a midnight lover who’d come and leave during the day. He’d hate him by day and love him by night.

For the nth time he’d shush the on going war of his thoughts to sink into the arms of the very man who started this whole mess, and relish in the fact that for once, he feels content.

Perhaps just this once, he could feel a small semblance of what it’s like to be a normal young man. A man who experienced the woes of love and it’s pleasures, and not a man who was haunted by the pressure of loving the very person who caused him his unending pain.


	4. In the middle of the night II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drunk version written consecutively at 12-3 am Chrollo Lucilfer version. Includes... idk man brain fog time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can already tell this is going to be bad. I have no friends to proof read it for me because I have no kurokura friend to lean onnnnn.

Curiousity—perhaps it was sheer curiosity that started all of this.

It happened one night, when Chrollo Lucilfer accidentally stumbled upon the current ‘home’ of Kurapika, previously known to him only as the chain user.

Awhile ago, perhaps a year or two maybe even more–, this young man was only a boy. A boy who thrummed with vengence in his veins—A boy strong enough to have child one of his own spiders much to his grimace and later, one more by complacency.

They crossed paths at some point but managed to somehow stay ‘civil’. Truthfully Chrollo doesn’t remember much of the encounter, now that he thinks about it, he can’t really say he remembers anything accurately.

Days seemed to melt into one another that it’s hard to distinguish them. Life seemed much more boring that way, maybe even lonely.

Perhaps that too was a deciding factor for what he had done.

One more thing Chrollo Lucilfer prided himself with was the fact he had an immense understanding with what life had to offer. Knowledge seeped from his fingers and he believed there was nothing in the world he couldn’t explain with time.

However—

For some odd inexplicable reason, he decided to ‘watch over’ the boy—er young man. He would be near him, hidden of course, but always in a 30 meter radius. It was almost fascinating seeing the youth go about his day. After going home, he’d always sigh and sink into his bed. There never was a day when that melancholic edge left his eyes.

It would be a routine from then on, sometimes he’d catch a glimpse of him in the day, but he would only allow himself to watch him at night. Watching as Kurapika would forego sleep for a good book—which he’d read for a total of 8 times since he’s seen him— the bags in his eyes grew in size every night.

Sometimes Chrollo felt the urge to tuck him to bed. To stop his insomniac ways—it’s for his own good his mind reasons—but it’s none of his business.

He had to rethink that thought after witnessing him cry.

There was one night when Kurapika cried. The weight of the world and the hauntings of his past seemed to bubbled up in the surface through tears. He remembers him looking utterly confused when he did. The young man touched his face and looked on with slight horror as he tried to wipe them away, but he can’t on crying.

His eyes glew red in tandem with his tears. Kurapika looked so vulnerable then, one hand carding his hair in distress while the other on his mouth was an attempt to hide his hiccups.

Chrollo Lucilfer concluded in that moment that—even in his most vulnerable state—Kurapika proved to be beautiful.

But even he must agree that tears did not suit him at all. If he could, he would have bursted in and comforted the man but he knows he could only bring more pain. So instead, he watched helplessly as Kurapika screamed his muffled woes to his pillow, he looked defeated as he cried himself to sleep.

Chrollo Lucilfer couldn’t understand the crumbling feeling in his chest at the sight of those tears. The world seemed much more dimmer with them.

After that day, Kurapika wandered without purpose. He resembled a man who lost his purpose, and perhaps he did, after all he was no longer in the pursuit of hunting his spiders. Which was something he has yet to rationalize himself. From what Chrollo observed, the man seemed to be operating under ‘autopilot’. He wouldn’t say he was fully conscious of the world. It was almost as if he were in a trance to cope.

That autopilot mode proved to be fatal one night. Kurapika seemed to have left work a little bit too late, and with his absence of mind, he hadn’t notice a strange man trailing after him. Chrollo watched with an eagle’s eye and heightened interest. Would the man finally be snapped back to reality with this encounter? Would he finally be back to normal? Even if that entailed sleepless nights and more coffee and books?

He thought he would only watched, but a strange feeling rised and settled in his throat after seeing no reaction from the blonde. Is he really letting himself get stabbed? Can he really not see the man planning to rob him?

As much as he appreciates the hustle—he can’t let that happen. Without a thought, his body moved on it’s own—kicking the assailant to his stomach before twisting the knife away from his grasps.

The sounds of chains are what make him freeze.

"Why are you here?" He didn’t need to look behind him to know his scarlet eyes burned holes at the back of his head. "I don’t know." He answered dryly—turning to face him, Chrollo would say he was accurate in his assessment. Scarlet eyes that swirled his tethering hate but it wasn’t the same flame he had back then—"are you going to kill me?" He wasn’t sure if he would be able to evade his attacks. The chain was already wrapping around it’s prey.

Then it suddenly loosened.

Kurapika sighed, deflating in his spirit with the chains receding. The scarlet glow slowly faded to his original eye color. Curious, he always thought Kurapika had silver eyes, but there was a blue tint in his eyes in the right light, even in the his normal state Kurapika once again proved his beauty.

"I’m tired." Was all he said before he retreated, his chains hanging loosely against his hands. ‘Thank you’ remain unsaid but heard.

That had been their first interaction in a long while. Perhaps that very same encounter was the reason Chrollo somehow became bolder with his advances. He made his presence known when he was watching the blonde, and of course the very same blonde was notably pissed.

"What now?!" At the question, Chrollo could only answer "You have something I want." Truthfully, he did not know what he wanted, but it felt like there was some truth to it.

Kurapika started attacking him then, with every meeting they had he would, but even Chrollo could tell there was no killing intent in it. He simply had no bite. He liked to think, ‘if Kurapika no longer has a purpose then let killing me be his purpose’. This back and forth will persist in awhile until one day it didn’t. Instead of attacking him, Kurapika eyed him from his seat before reading once again.

Feeling gutsy, Chrollo tested his chances by breaking into the blonde’s apartment. When he was one foot away from him, Kurapika paid to mind to him; instead he pointed towards an empty chair directly in front.

Chrollo took a seat.

He quite liked this developement. It looked like a quiet hangout between two friends from an outsider’s perspective. Sometime Chrollo would bring his own book to read, but leave it at Kurapika’s care after he’s finished reading.

His voice as he bid him goodnight sometimes rings clearly in his mind.

Fondness was a feeling he thought he’d obly reserve for the spiders, and yet here he was growing fond of the boy who killed one of his own. To be fair he was no good himself, having been the one to kill the blonde’s family first.

Yes he was definitely worse.

Still, there was a growing feeling in him that he couldn’t name. Something he couldn’t quite place, it was somewhere in his chest but it was too unfamiliar to tell.

These feelings of of his only seemed to spiral into impulsiveness as he is greeted with another sight.

Kurapika tossed and turned in his bed. Sweat beading in his forehead as he gasps. His hands scrambled to reach out—for anything. There he lay in the cusps of a nightmare he can’t seem to escape.

Like before, he couldn’t recall when he moved. Chrollo Lucilfer found himself immediately at Kurapika’s side, tightly squeezing his hands. When Kurapika opened his eyes and looked up at him weakly, he only answered "it’s going to be alright.". What was? Even if it was only mere placation, it seemed to have worked.

That night Chrollo Lucilfer held him through the night. Letting his fingers run through the locks of blonde hair, noting how soft they were, before disappearing when day breaks.

These interactions confused him, confused him greatly. Why was he going this far? He couldn’t give himself an answer. All he knew was that he seeked them somehow. Ever since that moment, Chrollo would wind up somehow in Kurapika’s bed coaxing him to sleep. If the blonde was ever confused of this action—he never let it be known.

It was almost domestic how they slowly grew used to eachother, laughably so. It felt right to hold him close, close enough that he could feel the other’s heartbeat through his chest. It felt right to pepper kisses trailing from his shoulders to his nape.

What they had felt right and that terrified him.

It seemed so unsettling how he let himself fall this far. Kurapika might have not known it but Chrollo knew that if the blonde wished for it—he could fall apart. What they had wasn’t love that much he could tell you. The symptoms might be the same but he would never admit it out loud. After all, that would be making them true. As if thinking about it isn’t a sign in itself.

He liked to think that maybe in another world they could have been great friends. He may have been drawn in by his beauty and that in turn, his scarlet eyes, but that was only the start. The blonde’s intellect was his most attractive part he’d say.

He’d seen his most vulnerable times, which he has concluded the blonde doesn’t remember, but that only made him realized how strong of a person he is as he pondered.

What they have isn’t love, he reminds himself, but he’ll commit every moment into memory and seek them out anyway.

His curiosity, unknowingly lead him to steal something he never thought he would be able to steal, but in return he left something of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holi sheeeet it was bad.


	5. The ghost of you I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate universe with no nen—or same universe just fast forward it so much that things evolved to be what the ‘standard’ is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brain was... slightly awake during this

Chrollo Lucilfer was a survivor—that much is clear.

He was born in Meteor city—a city where anything worth less than a cent is dumped in, a city for the forgotten and trash. Luck was never on his side, and he’s come to terms with that.

His earliest memories consisted of him drifting in the wasteland of said city. Picking up scraps and hoarding them in a small pile. It was all he had after all, even then he knew, that person was already there.

Though was alone, but at the same time he wasn’t. He could always see what could only be shadows of people in the far horizons. Maybe they were other citizens of meteor city—maybe they were not. They didn’t bother him not did they help him so in his eyes, they did not matter.

His most concrete memory was when he somehow ended up in an orphanage of some sorts. In his memory the caretakers remained faceless in his eyes, it was clear to him that his well being was not their priority but they were still obliged to take care of them. Even as a young child, he could already see the real thoughts adults around him had. No matter where he went, he knew he’d be labeled as trash by them.

And he’s found peace with that.

Their opinion of him isn’t what he holds dear after all. Horrible was their behaviour and so was their treatment that it’s hard to say who was the real child here, but still as much as he is pained by the memory—that place was also the start of everything.

He had nothing at first, not even a name. Instead, he gave himself one after teaching himself how to read. He decided to give himself the name ‘Chrollo’ after taking a liking to some discrepit story book hero he found.

Chrollo later found a found family in a group of rag tag orphans like him. It was unclear how they came to be, they just did. One day he was alone in one corner, then a girl with a striking nose named Pakunoda accompanied him. She was kind—motherly he’d say—so he didn’t drive her away. Soon another girl named Machi joined them, her pink hair was fluffy despite it’s stringy appearance, with her was a younger kid bearing the name Koltopi. A strange duo somehow inserted themselves in, one was named Nobunaga—a self proclaimed samurai—and the other, Uvogin—who was strangely fit, perhaps it’s the brawls he takes part in. Feitan and Franklin later joined in after awhile, Chrollo remembers the memory fondly. 

As the years pass, Shalnark, Phinks and Bonolev as well as Shizuku became a part of their family. They were the outcasts that didn’t fit into the mold the orphanage wanted to portray to the outside—and that’s okay. He didn’t need to force himself to the wills of the world, not when he had his friends that felt like family to him.

They weren’t his first friends however.

No, that title belonged to that person. The very first person who ever—dare he say—cared for him.

His name was Kurapika.

Kurapika was a strange boy. He can’t really put a timeline on the day he first met him but he knew, Chrollo knew, that Kurapika was always there.

In his memory, he could remember segregating the trash he’d found once. Looking for scraps he could eat, and when he found what could only be described as a rotting mass of what was a sandwich—his hunger beckoned him to eat. Before he could take a bite however, he heard a noise from the top of the pile. When he looked up he swore he saw an Angel. A boy, his age yet looking far much older, with a figure seemingly out of place in the heap of garbage, he was clean—way too clean. There was no speck of dirt or grime on his strange clothes. His blonde hair swished in a rhythm with the wind—giving an illusion that had a halo above his head—and his eyes were the prettiest blue he’d ever seen.

From his place, it looked as though the boy was a pure being, and cherub sent to save him from this desolate place, maybe he was. The boy didn’t speak but instead he pointed towards the rotting trash in his hands and shook his head. Chrollo grew confused, there was no food to be found anymore—did this boy want him to starve?

Still, he didn’t voice his concern. He did however watch as the boy descended gracefully from his place above the pile. He watched wordlessly as the boy took a step next to him and handed him the healthiest looking fruit in the whole world. It was firm, red in color and it smelled fresh.

Chrollo immediately threw away the rotting sandwich in favor of the apple. In less than 30 seconds, he promptly devoured the whole thing regretting not being able to savor it. Then he remembered the boy and thought what if he just ate the boy’s own meal and he had none to eat? Guilt marred his expression as he looked at him. The boy however only shook his head and smiled.

Stunned, Chrollo could only watch as the boy turned away and left him. That boy was Kurapika, his very first friend and God sent angel.

His memories of him were always something he treasured. The first time he ever heard the boy spoke was when he encountered him again in the orphanage after he looked for a small place to rest. He loved his family—spiders they liked to joke after all they mostly reigned over the darkest corners or walls of the orphanage, like spiders—but he too needs some alone time. He explored the orphange, an old estate of some rich bastard he presumed, it was big but some places weren’t in use. It was off limits and you ought to be punished if you’re seen there, but nobody ever said you had to be caught.

So here he was, searching the area for a place he could call his personally hideout. When he saw one room completely out of sight from the rest—he felt this urge to check it out. It was placed in a way where you had to actually go there to actually see the door, it was in a blindspot after all. Oddly enough, the door wasn’t locked muxh to his surprise. He was ready to use his lock picking skills, to which he found out he is extremely proficient at, but as it turns out, he didn’t need to.

The moment he opened the door, he was in complete awe. The room was a small library, filled to the brim with books with some collecting dust on the floor. It was a dream come true for someone like him who longed for knowledge like a man in a desert who thirst for water, but no—that wasn’t what left him in awe. It was just taste of it.

Before him was the angelic boy he’d seen before. This time, he looked much older, a preteen like him maybe ranging from 13-15 at age. Again, looking like an angel as the glass windows did nothing to stop the sunlight that draped around him like a warm embrace. He looked like he was glowing with purity—he was simply divine.

As smart as he was, no words were able to properly form themselves in his lips. Instead what came out was a choked "—it’s you.". The boy only looked at him curiously, but Chrollo could see he was amused.

"I-i’m Chrollo." His voice stuttered a bir but he didn’t let that deter him, "You help me before—". He stopped abruptly as his attention was snatched from him. The angelic boy laughed, most likely at his expense but, he laughed. His laughter was gentle, almost like how he’d invisioned stars to sound like. "I know, I remember you." If the warmth in his cheeks were any indicator that his flustered self was making itself physically known—the boy had not mentioned it.

"Ah-h." Attempting to recover from his flustered state was a feat indeed. The fact the boy remembered him brought him immense joy. Seeing as the boy stared at him, He cleared his throat before asking "What’s your name?" Mentally patting himself at the back for not stuttering this time.

He didn’t miss the small expression of hesitation on his face before he masked it with a nuetrality. "I’m Kurapika." He said and it struck Chrollo as something familiar. "Kurapika.." he murmured, tasting the name upon his lips giving it a feel. Chrollo quite liked it.

After that meeting, his routine solidified. Every week he would hang out with his spiders, but every odd numbered day he’d go and hangout with Kurapika in the hidden library. Chrollo liked to think that, that place was their own world. A place where they could truly be free even with their limited time.

He would never openly admit it, but it was clear in his face that he loved these meetings with Kurapika. The boy, like him, was smart. They read one book per day and they’d end their hangouts with mini debates. He loved the way they’d agree to things as much as he loved when they disagreed. Without fail they’d try to one up eachother by providing logical arguments of both objective and subjective manner. Rarely would any of them win, most of the time they’d reach a compromise instead. His view of the world only seemed to grow and expand itself the more he took into account Kurapika’s own opinion. Chrollo simply felt fufilled and enjoyed it so much.

He could only hoped that Kurapika felt the same way.

Something he sometimes—always—did was observe Kurapika. Sometimes he’d look at his hair, blonde hair that reached up to his neck, it looked fluffy and soft. Maybe one day Kurapika will let him touch it. He also noticed how oddly beautiful Kurapika’s eyes were. You couldn’t exactly pin them to one color. In the light, they were blue, bluer than the clear skies he’d seldomly see and way prettier, while in the dark it looked similar to silver with the way it shimmered. Sometimes he’d race to finish a book so that he could use the remaining time to look at his eyes while he read, and if he noticed he never told him to stop, so he won’t.

At some point, he came to notice the little things Kurapika would do. How he could brush his hair behind his ear when he felt unsure. The way his lips quirk in mischievousness when he was able to sucessfully win Chrollo over. The pout he’d give when he sucessfully won Kurapika over. The way his wit seemed to make him effortlessly laugh. Handling of books, treating them with care as though they were a babe. It was those little things that made Kurapika seem more human to him.

One day, Chrollo unintentionally destroyed the atmosphere between them by saying a simple wish.

"I want to introduce you to my friends" He said, and just like that it was as if everything came to an abrupt stop. He wouldn’t say the air was tense, no, not at all but there was definitely a change, like a clock who finally stopped working. Kurapika gave him this look, it was his classic nuetral face but he could see the small twinge of sadness in him that made him look much more older than he was. "w-what?" Kurapika’s odd behaviour made him feel nervous.

"I can’t—you, cant." He answered, to say he was confused would be an understatement. "What do you mean?" Chrollo asked him, looking to see if he could dig for more info but Kurapika only shook his head. "They won’t be able to see me." It still made no sense to him. He chuckled tensely, "you’re joking right?" But with Kurapika’s serious face. It was clear, Chrollo sighed despondently "if you didn’t want to, you could have just said no."

At the sight of his moping face, Kurapika consoled him. ".. it’s not that I don’t want to meet them—" that was a lie, Chrollo could tell but—" —they won’t be able to see me as I said."

"But I want them to meet my best friend! Is that too much to ask? They’ll like you I promise."

"...You shouldn’t say those words." Kurapika muttered, his hair barely hid the twinge of red that colored his ears and cheeks. "They don’t suit you." Chrollo only rolled his eyes, "Come on Pika!" The boy suddenly stiffened and so did Chrollo for different reasons. It was the first time he’d ever call Kurapika and thing than his name. Did he not like it?

Before he could backtrack—Kurapika softened. "Fine." He said and Chrollo piped up at his words but he immediately deflated at the words that followed. "It’s time you found out anyway." He didn’t understand, but he’d understand soon enough.

He remembered the meeting vividly in his memory. He had brought his spiders in the small library for the first time. Somehow fitting inside the room that’s already jampacked with books and other writing materials.

Kurapika watched wordlessly as Chrollo introduced him. "This is my friend Kurapika." What came right after sunk his heart.

His family looked among themselves, visibly confused. "Chrollo." He turned to see Pakunoda looking at him with gentle eyes with a hint of worry.

"There’s no one there."

He remembers the rueful smile on Kurapika’s face as he was bathed in the sunset’s rays.


	6. Araw-Araw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically Killua saying Gon is the sun- also listen to Ben&Ben's song Araw Araw for maximum effect dhebfb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to lengthen the story I made in IG so jendnj here we are-art included. you can interpret this as Platonic or Romantic.

There wasn’t a lot to look forward to in life at first Killua thought, but Gon seemed to be set on changing said thought—and Killua is absolutely glad about that.

Life was more excitable with Gon. the adventures they have feel endless but not mindless. It had substance, depth—There was always something to gain from their adventures.

So There is a lot to look forward to in life, Killua sums up. Although, it wasn’t just the terrific adventures that kept that life ‘worth looking forward to.’ Perhaps it was never that at all, no—Perhaps it was just Gon.

After all, he couldn’t imagine going on through all those adventures alone, it simply wouldn’t be fun—it would be boring.

Even on slow days, er chill days when they just lazed around or explored with no particular location in mind—it would be fun, as long as Gon was there. To put it simply, Gon is the sun, and Killua is willingly revolving around him if it meant basking in his light. Everyday is a life worth living he sums up yet again, as long as he gets to play with Gon and see his smile for another day. It was cheesy—bordering on Gon’s compliments cheesy— but it’s true.

It’s good to note that no one will be able to convince Killua that Gon isn’t actually the sun—and that’s all thanks to a certain event.

One of the rare, but not really rare, days where they just explored as mentioned before. Except this time, they stumbled into something they never expected, a large sunflower field high up. Now it wasn’t really extraordinary by any means—at least from Killua’s point of view—but Gon thought otherwise.

The sunny boy has squealed with joy at the sight and practically ran in, haphazardly throwing his Backpack, fishing rod included, at a nearby clearing. It was amusing to see Gon find joy in the littlest of things, and it was infectious too, Killua had found himself smiling right after him.

Contentedness was all he felt at the sight, and warmth too. Gon looked at home surrounded by the large abundance of sunflowers. It was then that Killua noticed how similar Gon was to sunflowers. His bright brown eyes that radiate inexplicable warmth reminded him of how the sunflower looks like, but he’ll soon change that thought. Gon was something more than a sunflower. He looked bright—brighter than he ever had before, and perhaps the sunflower noticed that fact too.

Again he repeats, Gon must be the sun—even sunflowers turn to look at his exuberance. They seemed to be tranced—so was he.

Gon must’ve noticed Killua’s silence right then. The boy calmed down for a bit, only to twirl towards Killua’s direction with a shy wave of his hand. He wanted to live in that moment—preserve it in his heart if it so permits, and it does. Including all other encounters he has with him.

Until the day arrives when they’d have to part, for whatever reason that might be, he’ll cherish every experience he has with the literal incarnation of the sun—Gon his first and possibly only best friend—everyday.

If he was given the choice, He will always choose to go with him, now and everyday.


	7. Ephemeral Transcendence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leopika but in a field with pining to the maximum capacity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my most semi decent works prolly—I know I’m a Kurokura gal but like—here’s the deal. My heart says Leopika but my brain says haha Kurokura go brrr. Kurokura is my guilty pleasure—but still let Leopika have their moment.

To be completely honest—it was unclear how they ended up in this situation. You see, Gon and Killua took it upon themselves to go explore yet again but this time, it was in a place they were wholly unfamiliar with. Add Kurapika and Leorio to the mix and their (parental) instincts made their worry meter skyrocket to unfathomable levels.

They didn’t doubt the two kid’s battle prowess of course. Not at all, it wouldn’t be a surprise to them had the two absolutely floored whoever their opponent may be, after all the two of them together were practically the dream team. The two were stronger then them in some areas no doubt about that.

What they were most worried about was the fact Gon wasn’t exactly—the brightest per se. Not in spirit mind you but in other areas such as—no point in denying it, the sunny boy is naive to a fault. Killua can fend for the both of them of course but even he allows himself to get roped into shenanigans when Gon is involved.

Which again loops them into their current dilemma of ‘where are the boys?’

“Damn it.” Leorio muttered, flicking the sweat away from his brow. They had been walking aimlessly for a while now with only Kurapika’s dousing chain as a guide, but it seems to be that the chain changes course way too often. “Where are those kids.” Leorio looked at Kurapika who only looked back wry smile in an attempt to placate him. “They are near from what I can tell, but it’s almost like they are bouncing all over the place.” Kurapika looked up to see tall grass blades that continue to heighten from what he could see—

And the dousing chain was directed in front of it.

“Guess that explains it.” Leorio sighed in disbelief ‘this kids.’ He thought, but powered through nonetheless. He went in front of Kurapika and used his taller stature to swat away the stray grass—allowing Kurapika to continue leading them. It was an appreciated gesture on Kurapika’s part but he couldn’t help but feel flustered over the fact he seemingly fits just right behind the man. He wouldn’t say he was too small for the average male—perhaps Leorio was just freakishly large.

It was uncomfortable really, the feeling of grass blades nicking at his neck or at any places with expose skin of his, but still Leorio could only hope they could find those kids soon.

The moment Leorio could feel the mass thin out he excited said “Hey! I think it’s clearing up!” Before plowing through the rest of the grass with Kurapika in tow. The scenery that greeted them was truly a sight to see.

A field of bright flowers that danced along the colors of yellow to red that danced along the wind that made him feel at home. The fresh air reminded Kurapika of the way Lukso smelled as it carried the scent of the flora—nature with it. The field stretched onward until he could see rolling hills beyond it. Even though he felt like an aspect was still missing—He was enchanted by it.

Leorio was almost in the same state, but something else caught his eye. The sound of twinkling laughter—one of childlike joy erupted out of his companion. Kurapika smiled and like a child, ran into the field without delay. Leorio could only watch in silence as the man settled himself in the middle of the field. Out of all the beautiful things this place had manage to put together—they all pale in comparison to him. Kurapika’s hair danced softly along with wind, not to dissimilar to the flowers he caressed so pleasantly. The way the sun shined down on him made him look like he was glowing so beautifully, like he was, no he IS the highlight of the wholething. Something about the whole scene and the way Kurapika wrote himself in it made him feel so—so much, too much. You can’t even explain it through words.

After letting the child in him settle—a simple touch brought him to reality, before it sent him right back into what could only be a dream. Here he was, in the middle of a field—with Leorio holding his cheek. He didn’t even remember when the man had gotten close, to that point he had touched his cheek no less!

But he couldn’t deny the feelings of comfort he felt.

Leorio’s touch was warm, warmer than the sun that bathed him in gold. His touch was familiar and that’s when he realized what missing. The epiphany came to him and nearly brought him to tears. He had found his ‘home’.

Wordlessly he leaned into the touch and looked into Leorio’s eyes. The feeling of his gaze was deafening, overwhelming to the point he closed his eyes instead. The warmth in those eyes, the warmth in his hands, kickstarted a wave in his heart that he couldn’t quell.

He felt Leorio hold his arm with the other and they stayed like that for awhile. No, perhaps it was only for a few seconds, perhaps a minute, 3 if he was being generous but it felt like they had been standing their for a long time. There was a lot of things he wished to say—more than you could ever know—but he would never allow himself to break whatever moment they had now.

He knew what he felt was unrequited—and as painful as was, it’s okay. If he could have this moment with him for a few more seconds—minutes or hours—then it’s okay. He’ll have his heart remember him dearly.

The two shared what could only be described as an intimate moment—unaware of the dousing chain that pointed towards two hidden individuals who snickered with delight, the very same individuals who planned the whole thing.

———

[There is no use in using big words to describe him—still, maybe they could come close to describing what kind of person he is. To whom was (He) addressing this to? You need not guess—the answer is already clear. The man could only grow in awe at the sight of pure gold of a heart the other possessed. His innate kindness despite his awkward disposition is what made him so Charming. It would be no surprise to him if he’d come to see the day the man brought home his own significant other—but for now, he wouldn’t deny there is a part of him, slumbering inside his beating heart, that wanted to covet the man that held him so tenderly. Unrequited feelings surely hurt—]

[—a lot. The man inwardly sighed. It was painful to admit yes but would you blame him for wanting to keep him close? His strong beliefs that keep him rooted, his selflessness of his made him so radiant. Something about the way his eyes, that rivaled even the sky, shone with resolute determination—even though there were times when he feared that, that very same enchanting quality of his would be his downfall. If that were to be the case, then he prays with fervor that he may be there to snap him out of his own chains. Regardless, he wishes to permanently stay in this moment of theirs. The fresh air that softly whipped away his gold tresses from his face. Strong yet looking delicately like a fairy he—]

[—was simply wonderful. His presence made him feel as though the rage that sat at the back of his mind had been tamed—usually, he’d consider it a bad thing, but not this time. No, the feeling was freeing to his soul—]

[—and that’s what made him so ephemeral. No words were exchanged in this time. Only through eyes and touches, for both feared that a word would break the delicate bubble. Both had the same messaged and yet both remain unrecognized by the other. Perhaps one day, it will be translated through their lips—and not through their hopes.]


	8. Divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroro Lucilfer meets an Angel who will restore his faith and distort it.
> 
> [biblical references, Moral disonance]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna say to some, please rethink if you truly want to read this—well, it’s not too too bad but It’s just extremelyy weird. I saw some fanart of a Priest Kuroro and I went with it—
> 
> But seriously rethink it first—and I just wanted to use the Kuroro spelling.

"And whatever you ask in you will receive, if you have faith." Matthew 21:22

Faith—What was he to do with faith he wondered. Kuroro Lucilfer was a devote man, a man of God who worshipped him and became the instrument to spread his words. His eloquence and charisma swayed many to the church and made them believe in a life of faith.

How ironic that was.

A servant of God he may be—but he was not his true master. Kuroro Lucilfer had no Master. He was groomed for this position, ever since they picked him up from that God forsaken place—the priests had taken him up to become one of them. Despite the ominous sign the cross on his forehead imposed—They instructed him to cover his mark with a cloth and masterfully taught him God’s word every day and every night. He had disregarded them at first, but quickly learned that rebelling against them was fruitless—for it brought him to advantage in surviving this game God above created. So like a subservient lamb, he greedily ate the lessons that they force fed him, and soon he got more privileges. He was no longer placed in a small prison-like room—now he was given a more spacious room that looked more livable and not just decent. His meals were slowly but surely becoming more filling. The priests were keen to believe in their achievement—"He’s becoming a dashing young lad isn’t he!" "Can you believe his transformation? God is truly kind!" "My what faith the boy has!"

With these words, Kuroro would only smile and say "God is good, all the time." Masking his faithlessness with a look of pure devotion. The word of God may be branded into his mind like a prayer made to last but he was like that of the Parable of the sower—seeds that have fallen upon the path shall not grow and instead be eaten. Seeds that have fallen on rocky soil shall grow yet weakly. Seeds that have fallen on thorns shall suffocate and die. Seeds that have fallen on good soul shall flourish and stay alive.

May those priest and their God believe he lay on Good soil as he traverses the one with thorns. The word may be inscribed to him and leave his lips but they may never enter his heart.

Although, there was a part of him that couldn’t help but envy those of the church. They had a figure to believe in, someone they can rely on in harsh times no matter how futile it may be—while he has no one but himself to lean on. He knows he is nothing but a false prophet, but if this helps bring relief to those who needs it then he has no qualms against playing this act. He may be without faith but he is no monster to deny one of this. Perhaps one day he’ll come to understand why so many come to flock in the church. Why so many blindlessly put their faith into something that they cannot tangible confirm exist. Perhaps one day...

There is no use in thinking of that now, he thinks to himself. If that day were to come then God better send a good envoy to convince him.

And God sure did.

One night, when the sky was at it’s darkest, Father Kuroro Lucilfer went inside the church alone to contemplate. The young priest looked upon the series of pews that normally housed families look so ghastly empty at night. The altar where he preached the word of God was quiet with no interruption. The church itself was empty except for him, and from the outside it looked haunting—and unnerving, but oddly enough Kuroro found comfort in that. Here in the empty house of the Lord, he could truly be honest and drop his act—as ironic as that was.

He kneeled down before the altar with bended knees. Clasping the rosary in his hands with an empty prayer. "My God My God.." he heard his voice echo. "Why have you forsaken? You’ve sent to me your earthly prophets to teach me your ways and yet I cannot find it in my heart to accept them." He looked up to see the stained glass with that shone with what he described as superficial beauty.

"If you so want me to join your ranks." Kuroro licked his lips. "Then show me the weight of your teachings. Prove to me your existence. Lest I follow no master but my own."

Silence reigned over the desolate church and Kuroro sighed and shook his head. Well that was a bummer. He was prepared to be disappointed but actually experiencing it is rather sour.

Before he can stand up however, he felt the air change, like something or someone has entered the premises and he looked around worried. He quickly stood up and searched the area—if someone were to have heard his soliloquy, his reputation may end up in tatters. When he could find none he sighed in relief before turning around towards the altar.

There his eyes widened.

Before him was a being draped in what could only be silk cloths. It looked both man and woman with it’s golden hair and solemn face. The being was alike the cherubs that decorated the church’s interior—especially with the beauty that shone through those sky blue eyes. A halo crowned above it’s head as the moonlight shined through to stained glass to illuminate it’s brilliance.

Kuroro was stunned—was he dreaming? Was this real? Was he truly seeing,, an angel?

"You are not dreaming, that I can assure you." It said, it’s eyes blinking almost coyly, under the moonlight it truly looked light a divine being especially with the way it’s blue eyes seem to glow. Kuroro was in complete awe—he was completely speechless. An angel, a true angel had come down from the heavens to prove God’s existence. Without a word he knelt down beneath the angel and spoke, "May you lead me to my faith." It’s beauty was truly something immeasurable.

The angel only smiled before descending from above the altar. Kuroro gulped as the angel sat at the altar, something one wouldn’t expect of an angel after all an altar is a sacred place, but he said nothing. Instead his thoughts silenced themselves when he saw a peak of the thighs of the angel when the cloth shuffled as it sat. God bless his soul. He whipped his head to stare at the angel’s face, who looked with an angelic yet mystified smile. "If thou have no faith." He gasps as felt warm hands caress his cheeks—this ethereal being!—

"Then put thy faith in me."

With those words Kuroro Lucilfer sealed his fate. His gingerly took the angel’s hands into his own and kissed it. The young priest does not know how much time has passed, but he could careless as he worshipped the being before him with all his being. Kissing it’s hands and by it’s feet as a sign of his reverence. The being before him was as softer than anything he’s ever felt. Warmer than any body he’s ever touched—more than any one he’d ever touched. This was without a doubt the most beautiful being he’s ever experienced, and probably the only thing he’ll experience. Nothing will ever compare again. As wonderful as the moment was, all things come to an end.

"I must leave." It said with remorse as it carded it’s delicate fingers over Kuroro’s hair. Sadness washed over him as reality as he knew it was about to return to it’s menial he ways "Will I ever see you again?" He desperately prayed he would.

The angel peered down on him softly before sparing him a kiss on his covered forehead, and with that he was disarmed, "soon." It whispered to his ears before disappearing without a trace. Kuroro Lucilfer looked to see the sun was already rising beyond the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So umm, here we are—This might actually get a sepearate version or add onto it because—ehe, I left some points that can slowly flesh the story out. Though I doubt this would even be worth too much.


	9. The moon who dreams of the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vivid dream rattles Killua to the core

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can imagine this as Modern AU with any age pass the third grade kdndj because well—Yeah sleep over at Gon’s house. It's pretty short sadly.

The adrenaline that comes with running, the scent of woods with a twinge of metallic—

And the terrifying pressure of aura where he’s headed. He had no idea why in the hell would he be running head first into an unfamiliar place in the dead of night but he was. His speed was unparalleled as sparks flew all around his body, but as unusual as that was—Killua had more things to worry about, something was beckoning him to go deeper in to the forest.

He knew it must be a dream it has to be. It was the only explanation he could offer as to why so many bizarre things were happening. There was no way he would go rushing into danger without thinking it first—Only Gon would do that.

As the menacing aura grew in size as he approached. He choked—the aura was thickly suffocating like smog; it felt familiar but also foreign. Like a replica of something he’s used to except twisted. There was a clear intent that mixed in with the aura—the intent to kill. 

The beating of his heart was frantic—helping the aura overwhelm his spirits. Honestly, Killua had no idea how the hell he was still able to keep on going, but he was. He peered unto the moon who watched him from above. Cold and unfeeling, he finds himself relating to the moon. Even Gon relates him to the moon, except—

Killua is observant and cool! Pretty too—like the moon!

That idiot, he shook his head. Maybe he really is the moon. After all, the moon needs the sun to shine brighter.

Suddenly, a loud sound alike that of a bomb erupted through the area. It echoed like a sonic wave and shook him to his core. He felt his insides vibrate with anxiety as it passed him, he wanted to run. In his peripheral vision, he saw something surge further—deeper into the woods. It broke down trees in it’s wake, decimating anything in its path. The yellowing glow, what is meant to symbolize warmth not brought terror upon him.

So why is he still compelled to run towards it?

Again he ran, he ran faster than he ever had. Sparks flew all over and around him as he flitted through the woods like it was his only goal.

The sound of a sickeningly wet crunch reached his ears; The sound came in intervals that signaled it’s close proximity. What greeted him when he did was the source of the sound. He saw a burly man bring down his fist to a desecrated corpse. It’s head bashed inward as blue blood dripped from its orifices. Despite the scene, what truly brought horror upon him was the familiarity he felt towards the man. "Jakken..." that voice, although matured, couldn’t be anyone else but—

Gon

Again he brought down his fist to deliver the final skull shattering blow. The body’s head popped like a balloon sending its blood scattering. His insides shuddered with what he could only describe as cool magma.

Gon—Gon he wants to call out. To make stop, to snap him out of it, anything! But he couldn’t move from his place he was completely powerless.

Killua couldn’t hear anything but high pitched ringing in his ears. His body has heavy like lead in his place but his head was in high alert. This, strange version of Gon stood up and stared at the blood that marred his hands. He swore heard his name leave Gon’s lips as tears flood from his eyes. Eyes that seems so... dead to the world. Suddenly in the peripheral of his vision, he saw the corpse animate itself, before launching towards—

A second, all it took was a second before he himself went forward pushing Gon away from the trajectory and yet—

His eyes flit towards the severed arm that flew up high in the air. It was though time seemed to slow, Killua saw Gon’s blood spew like beads unto the air as his own tears followed suit. The absolute emptiness in his eyes was...heart breaking.

There was a strange interlude of silence after the attack. A few seconds of stagnation where the air both thinned and thickened out. Before he knew it he watched as Gon screamed, not in anger but in extreme sadness. Trust him he wanted to make him stop. Killua—killua of all people knew that in no way would Gon want to do this and yet like before he was paralyzed. Gon jumped high before using his own severed arm to spear through the corpses chest. The writhing body slowly loosing energy, but despite this Gon hadn’t had enough. ‘...Stop’ Killua thought as a familiar yellowing light appeared where his as should have been. The ominous aura was there again. It grew and it grew and it grew like a progressing void of destructive energy. He wanted to scream! He—

"GON!"

He heard a broken voice screeched, heart wrenching and terrified. It was his own voice, except he wasn’t terrified of what would happen to himself. No, he was terrified of what would happen to Gon. In a split second, before the ominous aura came to a supernova, he saw Gon in tears turn to him—mouthing him a few words.

"... I’m (...) wake up killua (...)."

It was a Friday night when Killua Zoldyck woke up in a cold sweat. Chest heaving with missing breaths he desperately took in. That dream—no that nightmare was so vivid, too vivid. It almost felt like a distant memory in the back of his head, it was all too real. "..Killua?" A voice called out from the other side of the room. Gon, his Gon, sat up from his futon as he rubbed the sleeping his eyes. Familiar bright eyes. "..Are you okay?" Killua gave a wry smile "Yeah, just a nightmare." Gon concerned and unconvinced went up to where Killua slept. He sat next to the silver haired boy, pulling up the covers to their laps. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He thought about it. There was a part of him that wanted to talk about it, but the thought of talking about all about what had happened and what he had seen made him feel—exposed. "I don’t think I can," Killua sighed out. Gon being Gon nodded in understanding. The silver haired boy blinked, "you’re not gonna insist?" "I could but you said you didn’t want to. Why would I force you to do something you didn’t want?" Killua exhaled dumbly at his respond, Straightforward as always, but this was for the better. Until now, he couldn’t forget that caricature of Gon out of his head—

"But—" clear blue eyes locked into honeyed bright eyes. "Promise me, you’ll never do anything stupid." After a pregnant pause, Gon broke into hearty laughter. "O-oi! I’m serious!" "I know! But that’s why you’re here Killua!"

"What?" He asked, as the boy calmed down from his laughing fit—with honesty shining in his eyes he said this. "I know I’ll always get into stupid situations but—" The light in his smile was blinding, "I have Killua to stop me when I over do it!" Gon’s little chuckles brought a melting warmth over his once cold chest—one that thawed away the ice that encased his heart from the dream.

"It’s still 3am! Let’s go to sleep—" "O-oi Gon—" Killua could feel the warm flush invade his face as his best friend decides to make a bed out of his own space. "This is my bed you idiot!" "But it’s still a bed." Gon pouted quietly, like a puppy begging for forgiveness. "And it’s not like we haven’t done it before." The memory of Killua lying in Gon’s hospital bed back in third grade after the idiot decided it was a good decision to do a backflip on the stairway flashed through his mind. After that day, sharing a bed became a normal thing—

But this was different Dammit!!

"Just go to sleep Killua. We can play in the mornin-" The sunny boy mumbled under his breath. His cheek squashed above Killua’s pillow. "You idiot." The lunar boy said with averting eyes before lying down himself, putting the covers over their bodies. That night, his dreams were peaceful, pleasant—like home. 

In the early morning, Gon woke up as soon as the sun rose—stretching his body akin to a cat. When he turned, ready to shake Killua awake, he froze. Hair a fluffy mess, eyes still closed with his mouth slightly agape. A familiar but welcome shake in his heart reverberated to his person. Killua—His bestest friend in the world—really is pretty. “Killua?” He whispered near his friend’s ear, still he didn’t budge. ‘Killua must have been pretty tired.’ He thought, he did have a nightmare after all. With that his hands card through Killua’s hair before they steadily traces the features on his face. He smiled himself, Killua is really like the moon, he shines even in his darker moments. Breathing in a breathless sigh he thinks—

I’m lucky to have him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was pretty short sadly ;-; it was requested but I tried my best to lengthen it a bit more


	10. One more time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurapika laments on a few realizations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This does not make sense because it is just me, rambling away after not being able to write for so long

All it took was a few months, a few months nearing a year perhaps, to get what he wanted. To get the very thing he longed for and yet the victory he feels is inexplicably despairing. A rather bitter taste settled in his mouth as though he ate one of Bonolev’s surprise medicines, except this one was a more lasting taste. In his eyes, he liked to envision the night looking like an upside down ocean in the sky; it needed no moon to shine on its own as little stars decorated it’s unending surface. After all, despite its vagueness, it seemed to be the brightest blue the night sky has ever painted. Had it been any other night, perhaps he could have appreciated it more—if only he could see.

Kurapika sat in an abandoned church in the outskirts of the city. The musty smell of dust and wet dampness invaded his nose; the scent of trash subtly permeated the area but he paid no mind to it. He knew the layout of the building as though he could see it for himself, and in a way perhaps he truly did. The planning required to pull it off wasn’t too much of a fuss, in fact it seemed easy—too easy—to the point that as he pondered, even he acknowledged its stupidity. _He couldn’t have not seen through it. Truly he must have, then why did he allow himself to fall for it?_

With lithe fingers, he carefully detangled the knots on familiar black locks that laid quietly on his lap, not minding the sweat that made them stick to his skin. Kuroro's skin had always been ice cold as though he carried the winter in his heart, contrasting the embers that threatened to spill in his own eyes. However, now he felt strangely warm, warm as the blood pooled beneath his feet.

The grime on Kuroro’s face hid his hanker sore of a face behind it. The kurta’s fingertips danced around his lips to his cheekbones. He wiped the dirt off of the man’s face with his own cloth torn from his dress garments—The dirt was still there but it did its job. Time went by excruciatingly slow and terrifyingly fast. He _knew_ what was about to happen, but at the same time he _knew nothing_. The future is a fickle deity that favored no one, certainly not him, certainly not them both. In that moment, he realized how much he relied on the very same power he cursed. He felt his stomach curl coldly at the thought, but no matter—He’ll be waking up soon. He has to.

> _Large warm hands cupped his face, staining his skin red with blood. “How does it feel? To die by my hand?” The boy asked the man who lay in his lap, whose soul tittered between the border of the living and the dead. Silence hung over them; when the man finally answered, he only gave a wry smile “...Peaceful.” A lump settled in his throat and he too remained quiet._

Kurapika winced, closing his eyes and curling into himself. Vivid imagery he could only hope to see for himself flashed in his mind like a movie realm rewinding and unwinding in tandem with one another. His scarlet eyes grew brighter with every possibility with every _future_ he assessed.

> _“Hate me.” “... That would be rather one-sided, don't you think?”_

With gritted teeth, he gently shook the body awake. He should have been awake by now. Kurapika knew that—he saw it. The future that was promised to him. 

> _“The troupe doesn’t hate you, you know this don’t you?” “Shut up.”_

The body remained unmoving. Unnervingly still, warning Kurapika of the inevitable.

> _“...Uvogin, he doesn’t blame you either—” “Shut up don’t bring him into this—”_

What was once warm was now a cold embrace. 

> _“Do..Do you regret it?” The boy asked, soul weakened by wallowing emptiness. The man on the other hand played with the boy’s hair as he stared up at him; the blood that dripped steadily was of no concern to him. Kuroro Lucilfer murmured “...Do you regret this?” or rather, do you regret us? His words sent Kurapika’s mind into a frenzied haze. He—He didn’t—_

“Wake up. Wake up. _Wake up._ ** _WAKE UP_**.” a hoarse voice pleaded out, but had no one to answer him. The body, limp and 

> _Kuroro smiled, “Then you already know my answer.” he sighed and sunk deeper into Kurapika’s warmth to compensate for the siphoning of his own. “Have I ever told you, How much I love your eyes?”_

Tears pooled and fell over like waterfalls in his face. He gasped for air but his own body seemed to only suffocate him. Kurapika could hear his cries echoed like an undelivered elegiacal hymn, yet he couldn’t recognize himself. The feeling that encroached and ate away at his heart felt familiar, too familiar—“You selfish bastard.” He choked out as his crying fit steadily came into a halt. "why. _why?_ "

> _“Always”_

" _why didn't you_ —" why didn't he want? save himself? wake up? Kurapika didn't know what to ask; perhaps the one he should be asking was himself. Did he want this _—did he need this?_ Did he? wasn't revenge suppose to taste sweet? As divine retribution finally sets its watchful eyes on the very person who murdered without remorse? Then how come does ever death feel harrowing? With every life taken indirectly by his hand, the more he feels as though a void was slowly encasing his heart.

He believed it was fine, that he be the divine right hand who delivered the appropriate judgement to those whose morals lied selfishly to their own, but no; this is nothing but a poorly disguised excuse. Kuroro always acted like he was right, a trait he fond himself irritated by, but in the end he was right. Kurapika Kurta was not meant to kill; was not meant to wield the scythe of death or join his troupe _—_ something Kuroro confessed himself a month into his Introduction _—_ but still he stayed and wore the ill fitted mantle like a pedestal to live up to. 

Now, when all of the things that could have been said or done has finally come to it's conclusion—one could say he won. In the end he did get his revenge, no spider would ever walk the land of the living ever again after every leg was pulled and head severed; still, the he could feel the light stinging feeling of a mark of a spider on his left thigh. 

Perhaps that was the start of it all, the moment he joined the troupe his live had changed exponentially. A change that he didn't know whether he liked it or not—Whatever that change was, it might be the reason as to why this victory of his tastes so foul.

It would've been better if—if what? He hadn't seen the apparent comraderie the troupe possessed? if he hadn't appreciated the way they seemed to repent in the end? if they hadn't returned the eyes to him? _If he hadn't fallen for—_

No, there was no point in thinking it over now he laments. Kurapika sunk down, looking detached from the world, palming Kuroro's face. The cold frigid air surrounded him as the blurriness of his vision cleared as he drew closer to his face. He kissed his temples with tender touches. The kurta had thought to himself then; as he lay alone in an abandoned church with no one but the body of someone he'd grown to care for— _dare say loved_ —

If the world permits, he wishes to have one more chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry if it's bad isjhsjksm

**Author's Note:**

> To remove the kurokura/any ship stories that are sailing in my brain except its hella bad writing


End file.
